Through different eyes
by ilikestories
Summary: When I first saw him he was sitting on a doorstep in a narrow alleyway. It was the kind of night when every decent person was headed home for a hot bath and a large supper. Me included. A muggle sees Harry after the battle. What does she see? ONESHOT.


Disclaimer: Harry is not mine

A/N: This was written following an author visit and writing workshop in which we were asked to describe a boy crying in the rain. This is my respose to it. Please review

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When I first saw him he was sitting on a doorstep in a narrow alleyway. It was the kind of night when every decent person was headed home for a hot bath and a large supper. Me included. I lived across the street from the alleyway, and saw homeless people sitting on that doorstep often. There was something about this kid, though, that made me take a closer look.

Perhaps it was his face, a ghostly pallor had washed over it and he seemed to glisten in the lamplight. His head was in his hands, but even through the fingers anyone could see he had not had an easy life. There were innumerable cuts crisscrossing his face, and one scar that really stuck out; shaped like a bolt of lightening. He looked beaten, but at the same time victorious. His aura radiated a sense of loss and sadness.

Perhaps it was that, contrary to what was usually seen, he wasn't asking for money. He was hunched over in the cold, but he was not weak. One could tell that much from the way he was carrying himself. He was bleeding out of lacerations on his chest and arms. Thin, as though made by a person wishing to cause pain, not injury. The blood mingled with tears and rainwater as it floated toward the sewer grate, cascading into the darkness below.

Perhaps it was his hair; the ebony locks on his head were matted down, a tribute to his dispiriting attitude. It clashed with his waxy skin, creating a feeling of dissonance. It was not dirty, nor was it clean, per se. Honestly, it looked like he had fought a war. Of course, that was ludicrous. There was no possible way that that boy had just come home from a war.

Perhaps it was his age. While the term child did not describe him, he was not an adult. He only looked to be sixteen, maybe seventeen. Not the type I usually saw sitting on doorsteps, looking for money. He could have been faking it, but that was pretty steadfast faking. He could be a street kid, of course, but he just looked to… _virtuous _to be one. It was a phenomenon, his appearance there.

Perhaps it was the stick he was sitting next to, almost protecting. Now, I had seen many a psychopath on that doorstep, but he did not appear to be one. It was a nice stick, I guess, about a foot long, and he seemed to have been taking care of it, as it was polished and smooth. He picked it up gently and muttered something, and while I couldn't hear what he was saying it didn't appear to be English. He immediately looked warmer, and rather thankful.

Perhaps it was his clothing, for if he weren't so obviously male I would have suspected he was a girl. His black dress, for lack of a better word, converged around his feet. His look was something akin to that of a vampire, minus the teeth. The pallid skin combined with sable hair and onyx clothing was enough to make him look like Dracula himself.

I, in my undying curiosity, approached him, for who better to explain his remarkable manifestation than the soul himself? He turned his head as he sensed my presence behind him. Then he did the most curious thing of all. He spoke.

"If you want to kill me, do it now."

You see, it was the words that were strange rather than the speaking in itself. What normal boy would, upon meeting a person, utter such words as are unimaginable to the population at large? I was appalled to hear a seemingly innocent soul say such things. I replied.

"I have no wish to kill you. Shouldn't you be at home?"

That was when I realized what made him the most peculiar. It wasn't his face or his hair or his age. It was his eyes. His emerald eyes shown with an innocence long lost in most people over the age of ten. They held pure good, a sight almost blinding to look at. They also held wisdom. This was not the teenage wisdom of rock songs and romance novels. This was the wisdom of an elderly veteran who had lived beyond his years. It was a look unnerving, to say the least, on one of such youth. These eyes had seen the bulk of what life had to offer. He had seen love and hate, hope and despair, courage and fear. As with children and parents, no pair can exist without the other half. That is why it puzzled me so when I heard his reply.

"I have no home. I have no parents. I have no guardian worth going back to."

Surely that couldn't be true. No child could exist without parents. However I saw in his eyes, those astounding objects, nothing but truth and sadness. It logically followed that his parents had been killed recently and he hadn't fully accepted the fact that he would be living with other family for the remainder of his time until adulthood.

"I'm sorry" I said "How did they die?"

"Murdered." After a look of absolute horror crossed my face he elaborated. "I was very young. I can't even remember them. I've been living with my aunt and uncle. I just can't go back there. Not now."

"Did they…" I gestured with my hands, indicating his many injuries.

"No, that was the man who got my parents. We fought… I won. His followers, though, they're still out to get me. "

I really didn't want to get involved in gang politics, so I pushed on about finding him a place to go. "How about your friends, surely you have some of them?"

Now he looked just miserable. "Dead… or homeless. He attacked them to get to me-" Here he paused. "-to get me to face him alone. It worked, but now they're all gone, all gone…"

"May I ask how they died?" I murmured, fearful of the answer,

"Fighting."

"For what?" I asked, expecting to hear 'Drugs' or 'Weapons' or anything but what he said.

"Peace."

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I would love just to let it end there, but I ask again, please please please review with something!


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